


The Sky of Florence

by Vaysh



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Florence | Firenze, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-23
Updated: 2010-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-12 20:30:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/pseuds/Vaysh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like father like son, they say, and Scorpius Malfoy hates that saying with a vengeance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sky of Florence

**Author's Note:**

> This was written on the night train from Firenze to München. It is dedicated to the Florence Six, Anthimaeria, Blamebrampton, Pingrid, Raitala, Shiv5468 and yours truly. Mille Grazie to Pingrid, for beta-reading and catching all and even my Italian mistakes!

The sky of Florence is all blues and pinks, with trees and houses sharply outlined against it. It reminds Scorpius of Al, this contrast of pastels and black, of a softness that cuts right into his heart.

They are vacationing in Italy, Father, his current boyfriend, Paolo something-or-other, and Scorpius. His mother is in Rome, putting her latest fashion collection on the catwalk. Scorpius had wanted to join her, but she would have none of it. _I can't baby-sit you. Go with your father, enjoy the arts_ , her letter said, the hand-writing readable, obviously dictated to a Quick-Spell Quill in a hurry.

Thus, after a day spent in half a dozen churches and huge museums, Scorpius finds himself in this expensive Muggle restaurant, before him a half-eaten dish of _aubergine parmigiana_ , admiring the sky and thinking of Al.

They had it all planned out. Al was to convince his father to take the Potter kids to Italy for the summer. And that part of the plan worked out brilliantly – the Potters are indeed somewhere on the boot-shaped peninsula. Last Sunday they were to meet in Venice, but Venice hadn't happened. For one, it's not as if Scorpius can ask Father to change his carefully planned-out itinerary for meeting up with one Harry Potter. And Al says, his father would rather slave away in his office all through the summer than face any member of the Malfoy family whilst on holidays. Scorpius has seen Mr. Potter a mere two times in his life, but the man's dislike for the Malfoys does include him, as well, it seems. Al complains about this fact so often that Scorpius has come to defend the unknown Harry Potter. It's not as if _he_ would have chosen his last name voluntarily.

Still, when the hotel clerk handed Scorpius Al's letter, saying that the Potters would be heading down South to visit Naples, he felt the same bitter disappointment as cuts through him now, while he is watching the sky, where just above the Palazzo Vecchio dark purplish clouds gather. Scorpius senses Father's eyes on him and turns to meet his gaze.

"Is the eggplant all right?" Father asks quietly – always a sign that there is more to follow –, and Scorpius nods. "I'm not really hungry," he says.

Father still looks at him, and Scorpius can practically feel him read his mind. Not with Legilimency, he would never do that. Not without Scorpius' consent at least, and he'd rather die than let Father into his head right now. But he knows anyway. Not exactly what is going on, not the extent of it, but he knows that something is heavy on Scorpius' mind. He just wishes they weren't so much alike, that there was no bloody father-son link (or whatever) between them. It leaves him wide open to his father's gaze. All his life Scorpius has done everything he can to not be like Father, to not resemble Draco Malfoy so much, his looks, his tone of voice, his pure-blood style. Scorpius cropped his hair short, when Father let his grow down to his shoulders, he got glasses even though the healers offered to correct his eye-sight with a few spells, he wears Muggle clothes whenever possible. As a child he wished with all his heart to be Sorted into Gryffindor, like Al, only to end up in Slytherin, just as every Malfoy for the last millennium. Hell, he'd be happily in Hufflepuff even – every house is better than Slytherin where one half shuns him for being Draco Malfoy's son, and the other half looks up to him as if he were some defender of the ancient pure-blooded way of life.

"More wine?" Paolo asks, obviously trying to dissipate the tension between his travel companions.

Scorpius nods and earns himself another disapproving look from his Father. His thoughts are written clearly across his face. _Drowning his sorrows in Tuscan wine, now, isn't he?_ And Scorpius wishes that he could get smashed, stumble to the hotel singing Muggle songs and wank himself to sleep. Leisurely and not thinking of Al at all.

Father interrupts this happy train of thought. "Did you go shopping today?" he asks and points at the bag beside Scorpius' chair where the edge of a red cashmere scarf is peeking out. All through the trip, Father has been encouraging Scorpius to spend whatever money he wants on scarves, ties, shoes, the leather gloves Florence is famous for. Father got himself a stylish dark blue coat, and it must be Paolo's influence, for all that Scorpius can remember his father would not have been caught dead with something as Mugglish as the zipper closing over the elegant lines of buttons on the coat's front. Scorpius has bought nothing for himself yet, only the scarf.

He shrugs. "I lost my scarf in the Boboli Gardens."

Father raises an eye-brow. "Your school scarf?"

Scorpius nods.

"And you replace it with Gryffindor red?"

Really, Scorpius wishes he and his father would not think so much alike. "It's a present," he blurts out, "for a friend who happens to like red."

For a moment Father's face darkens like the thunderstorm that is drawing near. But he lets it go, flashes Scorpius a smile instead. "There is nothing wrong with having a friend in Gryffindor," he says and turns his attention back to his dish of wild boar and beans. "What's his name?" he adds casually, like an afterthought, but it's not as if Scorpius isn't prepared for the question. They are, after all, both Slytherins.

He shrugs as if it doesn't matter. Father let's this go, too, and starts to talk to Paolo who is watching them quietly, an odd smile on his face. But his father's tight grip around the knife tells Scorpius that this conversation isn't over yet.

After dinner, the three of them walk through the cobble-stoned ginnels of Florence, winding their way back towards the hotel. It is an old-fashioned Continental affair with wainscoting and gilded mirrors in their rooms and an abundance of yellow roses in the breakfast room, kept fresh and smelling sweetly by a Stasis charm. The lift, however, is always out of order, the magic interfering with Muggle electricity.

The _gelaterias_ are open late on this mild summer night, and Paolo buys shamelessly over-priced ice cream for all of them. He and Father giggle like schoolboys as they take turns tasting the Every-Flavour kind Paolo got for himself. He's a nice guy, Scorpius thinks, as he watches the lithe man walking in front of him. The early grey in Paolo's hair flashes silver in the streetlight, his green eyes shine darkly when he turns his head. Father always goes for this type of man, but Paolo actually seems to care for him.

It will not last, Scorpius knows – it never does. He doesn't know what kind of bloke his father is waiting for to settle down with, but it's not a bloke called Paolo. Or James. Or Georg. Scorpius doesn't want to be gay, even when he admits to himself – in the deepest dark of the night – that he most probably is. Father may still wait for some Mister Perfect to come along, but Scorpius slept with enough girls to know that there will be no Miss Perfect for him. It is why Al's letter shocked him so much. He has been carrying the piece of parchment in the pocket of his trousers ever since the owl delivered it to him on the last day of school. The Potter kids had left early, because of some official ceremony with oodles of reporters in attendance, no doubt, in honour of their famous father.

 _Scorpius_ , the letter says, _I've been thinking. About you, mostly. When we meet in Italy, can I take you out on a date? I'd like to kiss you very much. Cheers, Albus._

It sounds so much like him, Scorpius can almost hear his voice whenever he re-reads the words. He keeps thinking (and hoping) that Albus was drunk when he wrote them, and the dark blotches of ink on the parchment seem to confirm his suspicion. Only he knows, it's not ink. Not drops of spilled wine, either. Only tears leave such faint spots, the salt keeping them from soaking into the fibres of the parchment. They are like Al, those spots, sharply defined against the parchment's unrelenting softness. Scorpius has no idea how to deal with his friend's pain – his best friend who wants to be his lover. _Wrap him in red cashmere when he longs to be wrapped in your arms?_

But he cannot be gay. It's another thing that would make him more like Father. And even worse, Al fits his father's type to the dot: skin like pale cream contrasting starkly with dark hair, the green of his eyes like Slytherin to the Gryffindor red of his lips and cheeks. The memory of Al's face makes Scorpius' heart hurt. He watches as his father slides an arm around Paolo's waist – a rare sight, for Father never initiates intimacies, not publicly, not when Scorpius is present. It can only mean that he is slightly drunk from the wine, from the crackling surge of power in the Florentine air as the thunderstorm approaches. And perhaps he even is a bit in love with this new man. Something like jealousy wells up in Scorpius and brings tears to his eyes, of shame mostly. And loneliness. Scorpius doesn't have a type. He only wants Al here, with him. And perhaps that's what makes him different from his father after all.

He looks up into the sky, over to the sharply etched line of the horizon, when a pair of hands moves across his eyes from behind and strong fingers press ever so lightly on his lids.

"Guess who?" a voice whispers in his ear.

Scorpius' heart misses a beat, but there's no need to guess. He knows these hands, these strong, warm fingers, knows them anywhere. He turns around, never opening his eyes, and takes Al's face into his palms, searches blindly with his lips for Al's mouth. He feels the other boy go stiff, but it's only for one startled moment, then his body melts against Scorpius, and his lips open and they kiss, _kiss_ , like Scorpius never thought he could kiss anybody. He is achingly hard in almost an instant, and this is another thing he never thought possible. Al's laughter bubbles up through their kissing, and he presses his body harder against Scorpius, wraps his arms around his waist and pulls him even closer. Scorpius rakes his fingers through that soft mess of dark hair and can't seem to stop the low moaning noises coming from his lips. He doesn't know how long they kiss, but he wants this to never end – this sweet wordless closeness, all of Al's soft sharpness directed towards him, and him alone.

He doesn't care, does not even think about Father and Paolo. Nor does he care about Mr. Potter who Scorpius later sees standing near the carousel, the flickering lights throwing strange colours on his face as he smiles – happily, Scorpius thinks – at the two of them. But now, _now_ all that Scorpius cares about is Al, his body moving against him, his breath flowing into him like night air filled with the scent of flowers and dust.

Scorpius cannot help laughing, loudly, and he moves his head back to finally look at Al. His green eyes glitter – with happy tears, Scorpius is certain of it.

"So this is my answer?" Al whispers, and words form in Scorpius' mind, words that surprise him more than anything that has happened during these last few weeks. _I've waited so long for you._ He cannot say it, not now, and so he just nods and traces Al's lips with trembling fingers. "All my life," he says softly even if Al can't possibly understand. There is a wetness on the other boy's face, and Scorpius realises it's the first drops of rain, heralding the imminent thunderstorm. The half-moon is reflected in Al's eyes. And how odd is that, to see the sky of Florence in his face?

He presses against Al's body, hard and soft and _here_. Then he takes his friend by the hand. "I bought you a present," he says and thinks of pale skin stretching over warm flesh, of a scarf, soft and red as Albus Potter's lips.

* * *


End file.
